


Edge of Seventeen

by suhayl



Category: Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz, Be More Chill - Iconis/Tracz (Two River Cast) Actor RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Squip, Angst, Hospitals, M/M, Warnings May Change, strokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-12
Updated: 2019-05-12
Packaged: 2020-03-01 10:24:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,230
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18798457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suhayl/pseuds/suhayl
Summary: Michael hated hospitals.He supposed his best friend being in one didn't help much.





	Edge of Seventeen

Michael hated hospitals.

The walls, no matter how much decoration was forced upon them, would press in on him. Really, though, the only rooms that tried to seem like they weren’t buildings of death and fear and depression were the front desk and personal office spaces; everything else, those long, endless hallways and stagnant hospital rooms were so devoid of _anything_ , it scared him.

His least favorite part was that section, he didn’t know what it was called and didn’t care to find out, that had all the patients who were already dealt with, who weren’t in any emergency- no, they were in an emergency, just not as immediate as others. The halls were completely silent, save for the hushed voices of visitors or staff or whatever sorry souls resided along that stretch of land or the incessant beeping that makes you want to scream of heart monitors and all those fancy pieces of machinery that _should_ be able to save people, but never seem to manage.

Michael stood there, in that room, the first gate of hell, waiting for the woman working the desk to hand him a crinkly yellow wristband, the date printed on. The air was stifling; inhaling took effort due to the smell, whatever the hell it was. It’d stick with him for months, if he even stayed away that long. The lights were too bright. It was 5:30, for fuck’s sake, it shouldn’t be this bright.

Maybe his pessimism was due to the reason why he was here. After all, it’s difficult to have a good outlook on life when your best friend of twelve years had a stroke and is now in the hospital for some unforeseeable amount of time. Yeah, he thinks he has good reason to be depressed.

He was overreacting, a little bit. Jeremy wasn’t dead, and his chance of survival is surprisingly high. But, _still_. His best friend didn’t even act like himself and may never regain mobility. It was a shitty situation, even if it could be worse.

The woman with a too-cheery voice handed him his wristband with a smile that was almost insultingly joyful for the situation. She acted like this was a fun trip, like he was just given a museum pass instead of a flimsy paper band that would give him access to the hospital room that held Jeremy.

He signed the check-in paper she presented him and stepped through the double doors that lead to the patient wing. As soon as he walked through, the attempts to hide the inherently depressing nature of the building either ceased entirely or immensely dropped in effort.

The walls were a pale, sickly off-white, contrasting _way_ too much with his deep red hoodie. It seemed like everything here was just trying to make him feel even more out of place than he already did. He wondered if he should’ve changed into something less casual after school, but determined that all it’d do was make everything about the situation seem even more unnatural.

By this point, walking to room 126 was second nature. As soon as he entered the wing, Michael’s body moved on auto-pilot, leading him directly to where he needed to be.

His beat-up sneakers tapped across the floor as he walked past the variety of people walking through the hall. The doors were just thin enough that you could just barely discern the sound of a football game playing on the T.V., conversations desperately trying to ignore the reality of the situation, or the gentle sobs of a family accepting the inevitable.

It really lifted the mood.

A few of the doctors, nurses, or fellow friends and family who were there to visit would recognize him from his daily trek and wave at him as he passed. It was odd, honestly, to become a hospital regular. Not exactly what he had planned to do in life, but, then again, nothing else has gone to plan either.

Michael came to a stop and sighed once he reached the sterile white door. He took in a deep breath and knocked, holding it, and then letting it out as he heard the muffled, “Come in.”

Twisting the doorknob, he stepped in.

Nothing really changed since last time he was here, which was expected seeing as it was about 17 hours since then. Mr. Heere was still sitting next to Jeremy’s bed, the T.V. was still on and muted, the whiteboard parallel the bed still had the week’s schedule, the vase of wilting flowers were still perched on the bedside table, and Jeremy was still there, still faded, still alive. Barely.

“Mikey,” Jeremy perked up, as much as he could, and lopsidedly smilied, lifting his good hand off the bed about and inch and waving. It was so devoid of energy and the feeling the greeting/smile usually gave off that it did nothing to improve Michael’s mood. Ever since the stroke, everything he did seemed to be a little awkward, relearned, and it was all a second or more late. It had been long enough for him to start having full conversations, even if all his words were slurred; prior, especially right after it happened, he couldn’t even speak.

“Hey, Jere,” he said, waving back and walking over to the seat by the window that he always sat in, “How’re you feelin’?” It was courtesy. He knew Jeremy felt like shit, both of them did, but it felt like he needed to ask. Maybe it was just a small sliver of hope that he was better, that he could leave this dreary hospital and come home for once. Then again, when did anything Michael hoped for actually happen?

“Same as usual,” he said, a small, pitiful smile on his face, “You?”

“Fine,” Michael said, turning away and subsequently ending the conversation.

He stared out the window. Facing his best friend took to too much effort, seeing his weak expression, lacking the animation it always had. Jeremy’s dad and his voices rang in Michael’s head, but it was just background noise. He ignored it, just kept looking, studying every detail of the scene in front of him like he was playing Stare and his 30 seconds were almost up and the sands of the hourglass were slipping through one after the other and he just needed to _cram_.

This was getting tiring.

The conversation stopped, followed by the loud scraping of a chair on the linoleum tile and heavy footsteps of, seeing as Jeremy both couldn’t walk and wasn’t wearing shoes, Mr. Heere.

“Hey,” Jeremy said, facing his frail, too skinny body towards Michael. He looked away from the boring, parking lot view, focusing instead on his friend, who was smiling. It lacked any light, anything that would make it _Jeremy’s_ smile. This was an impostor.

“Yeah?” He replied, trying, really trying to force a casual tone. It sounded more like he was constipated.

Jeremy reached for the flimsy blue plastic hospital tray that held his lunch, picking up the cherry jello that was left. “Saved this for you,” he said, that same smile on his face, but just a little more like him. He smiled back, taking the jello cup and dragging the chair over to him.

“Thanks,” Michael said, opening up the plastic cup and scooping some out with a spoon from the tray. It tasted terrible, and the texture of it made him want to hurl. He didn’t know if it was the jello itself or the environment he was eating it in that was making the experience a sensory hell.

“Twelve years and it’s still your favorite, huh?”

“Still my favorite,” he repeated dully. He was so selfish, god; Michael wasn’t the one sitting on a hospital bed with IVs stabbed into his arm and unable to get up without calling in the nurse to help him walk, yet he was the only one in the room who was unable to smile. It should be _him_ who is making _Jeremy_ feel better, not the other way around.

“So…” Jeremy began, “School going good?” It was a last-ditch attempt to make the situation normal, but the phrasing, the tone, and the question itself all stuck out like a sore thumb when compared to the kinds of conversations they’d usually have. This was something a parent or relative would ask when you got home for the day, not what a best friend would.

Nonetheless, he humored him. It was the absolute _least_ he could do.

Michael shrugged, nudging the jello around the cup, “Fine? I guess. Theatre’s starting up again soon. I think Chris mentioned that they’re putting on _12 Angry Jurors_ .” He decided not to tell him about how much he dreaded going every day due to his constant worry that something would happen when he was gone, and he’d stop by the hospital and be met with _nothing_. He needed to pull himself together. Jeremy wasn’t going to die.

“Sounds fun. You auditioning?”

“Maybe? If she forces me, yeah, but otherwise I’m not.”

“Please try, at least. For me?” Jeremy’s smile gained back some of that emotion, that light that made it _his_ , and Michael grasped desperately onto it, onto what he had took for granted his whole life, ever since he was four years old, seeing that smile for the first time on the playground as he met the eyes of a much smaller, much healthier Jeremy Heere and every other time over those twelve years that he could just walk a few blocks at most and see that smile. It was perfect; everything right with the world. Absolutely stunning.

And it was gone.

Just like everything else he once had.

He responded a beat late, but shook it off, “I’ll _try_ , but I probably won’t be cast.”

“If you don’t, go for crew. It’s just as fun to work behind the scenes. ‘Specially on this one, it’s got a lot of cool effects.”

“Yeah, yeah, I will,” he said, waving his spoon dismissively, “Why do y'want me to be involved so much?”

Jeremy shrugged, causing the sheets and hospital gown to crinkle, “I dunno. It just seems like you aren’t doing anything outside of school and coming here. Plus, I’d love to see your acting debut.” At that last bit, he slowly lifted a bony elbow and nudged him playfully. And with that, Michael made up his mind. Though he doubted the boy would be able to get out of the hospital long enough to go, Jeremy wanted to see him act, and like hell was he not going to do that for him. It was the least he could do.

With a hum, Michael changed the subject. “Your mom called yet?”

He huffed, “Nope. As if _this_ would change anything.” Jeremy’s mother was, in the kindest words Michael could conjure up, a pitiful excuse of a human being. He was incapable of expanding his vocabulary enough to describe her in the rudest words, but whatever they were, they could make the most hardened man clutch his pearls and gasp.

Her shittiness was further emphasised by the fact that she wouldn’t even call her son back after he had a _stroke_ , for fuck’s sake. It was disgusting, in his opinion, that anyone who would dare to consider herself a ‘mother’ to treat her child like that, to completely ignore him in his time of need.

It took a hell of a lot to piss Michael off, and even more to cause him to completely hate something (save for teriyaki chicken, ketchup, and the Disney movie _Bolt_ , none of which did anything to him to bring about his hatred), yet Jeremy's mother managed to do what so many before her failed to.

“Have I ever told you how much I hate her?”

“Many times, Mikey.”

“Good, ‘cause, holy _fuck,_ I hate her.”

“Just like every other time, I one-hundred percent agree.” Jeremy said, smiling a bit and meeting his eyes. He didn’t get it, how the boy could smile while he was laying in a hospital bed, having to relearn _everything,_ talking about his dead-beat mom who wouldn’t even answer a text. Michael admired him; he doubted he’d ever be able to keep a smile on in a time like this.

He took a deep breath in. “Jere?”

  
His best friend hummed.

“I’m,” Michael began, trailing off as he tried to find the words, “I’m sorry.”

Jeremy’s face contorted (as much as it could with a good half of it barely responding) into a look of confusion. “Why?”

Running a hand through his hair and looking away, he sighed, “I don’t know. It just feels like… like I should be doing more for you.”

Before he could reply, he hastily continued, “I know it’s not my fault, and there’s nothing I can really do, but still. I should be able to do more than mope around and feel sorry for myself.”

“Hey,” he said, slowly lifting his hand and placing it on Michael’s, drawing a light blush from the other, “It’s okay.” His voice was soft, it was the most beautiful thing he’d ever heard, even with the slurred words and prominent difficulty to speak.

Michael smiled. Really, genuinely smiled. Nothing was okay, it may never be, but at least Jeremy was there, he was _alive_ , and that was all he needed.

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you guys enjoyed! I'm still figuring out if I want to post more chapters of this, but I really don't want to start it and never finish. For now, though, have a one-shot! This sort of introduces the general plot of it, so if you are interested in seeing more, please let me know! It'll definitely influence if I post more chapters.
> 
> Thanks!  
> -Julian


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